All I Need
by WitheringSage
Summary: Lancelot and Sophia try to reconcile, while Raja is fighting for her life.


**All I Need**

_Can you still see the heart of me?_

_All my agony fades away_

_when you hold me in your embrace..._

Chronology: Tristan is 32. Lancelot is 30. Raja is 22.

Lancelot swung Sophia around and around, twirling, spinning, and it was divine to be in so close proximity with her, laughing and smiling. He had never stopped loving her. His body never failed to pause when he caught glimpses of her. The beginning of their reconciliation – or truce – began at Raja's and Tristan's official wedding when he had asked her dance. Since then, the two of them had talked more, almost as if they were getting to know each other again since he had been unfaithful to her two years ago – a constant regret. Lancelot had reverted back to his old ways – random women he forgot the names of, if he had even caught their names in the first place. It was empty, cold.

The music ended and Sophia smiled at him, catching her breath. Lancelot could have danced with her all night. But before he could sweep her away for another, a simpering voice, dripping with sexual innuendo, rung in his ears.

The blonde woman's breasts jutted out of her blouse as she stood before him, wrapping her hands around his arm. "May I have the next dance?" Her blue eyes promised something extra.

Lancelot wanted to say no, he was going to say no, when: "Thank you for the dance," Sophia told him, nodding at the woman amiably before she walked away. Lancelot took a step to go after her, but the blonde stepped in front of him, hands on his chest, her perfume suffocating him. He saw Sophia leave the tavern, she no longer worked as a barmaid unless she were doing a favor for Vanora.

"Excuse me," Lancelot said to the nameless woman, nudging her out of the way to follow Sophia. The crisp, cool air filled his lungs and cleared his head. Not far along, he saw Sophia heading in the direction of her quarters. He called her name, taking long strides until he was standing in front of her. Everything he had wanted to say left him, for only actions took over. He barely knew how it had happened, but his lips were on hers, they were in his bedroom, handing exploring each other.

"No!" she moaned, trying to push him away even though her body continued to press against him. She realized what she was about to do, and where she was about to do it. The man she had loved, still loved, the man who had so cruelly betrayed her with another woman.

Sophia's name was a wanting groan on his lips when he felt her resist. But he needed her so badly, felt so alive with her, warm, filled. Her protests were muffled by his arduous refusal to let her go, until she began to give in, losing herself in his touch.

Sophia continued to voice her feeble arguments, but her breasts ached for him, the wet place between her legs ached for him, but mostly, it was her heart that ached for him. And she hated herself for it, for still loving him, worrying about him whenever he left the fort, and silently rejoicing when he returned safely. And as all those emotions built up, fury gripped her and she recoiled, slapping him hard. He looked at her in shock, the sting crawling down his cheek. Lancelot saw the hurt in her eyes, she had never cried in front of him, and when they had had their last confrontation two years ago, she had barely raised her voice. He had wanted her to hit him then – yell, scream, throw something at his head, call him a cheating bastard. But she had done none of that, and now as he gazed at her, he saw and felt the depths of her anger, the sadness he had caused.

Her body shook, her face was flushed. Lancelot stood still, making a pillar of his body for her to release all she had been holding in. He kissed her again, roughly, provoking her until she slapped him again. Sophia made her advances on him with no mercy. He held her just as tightly, moaning in part pain and part pleasure when she bit his bottom lip, torturing him with her tenacity.

He untied her blouse, pulling it aside so he could cup her breast, pinch her taught nipples. Sophia undid his belt, his vest, pushing it off his body for him to pull his tunic over his head, throwing it on the ground. She seized his lips again, her soft hands running down his muscled chest, his hard body scarred from battle. Lancelot pulled her blouse down to her waist as she untied his breeches, his erection springing free. All their clothes came off in haste, manic stripping. She shoved him on the bed, straddled him, pinched his nipples until he cried out.

Lancelot's penis throbbed and pulsed, looking up at Sophia's creamy skin, firm breasts. She planted kisses on his pectorals, flicking her tongue over his nipples, nipping at them with her teeth. When he could take no more, he flipped her on her back, cupping and kneading her breasts as their tongues danced furiously. Sophia groaned at the domination, slapping him again, her nails raking against his skin.

"Let it out," he moaned. "I deserve it." Her nails skimmed over his face again. He poised himself to slide down her body, trailing his tongue down her body until he reached the flow of her juices. Her back arched, and she threw her head back when she felt him drink from her, causing her to climax to a feverous pitch. She bucked her hips, her fingers tangled tightly in his hair, forcing him to take more of her. She pulled his curls every time she orgasmed, not caring that it was causing him pain.

Lancelot loomed over her, pressing his lips to hers, both of them tasting her arousal. Knowing that he was enjoying her, she clawed her nails down the sides of his neck as they kissed. His muscles tensed at the burn, his body flaring in pain. And when he entered her moist warmth, he felt a completeness he had not experienced in so long. It consumed him, the motions of his body, possessive and passionate as he gave himself to her. He relished her nails scratching down his back, digging into his buttocks as her thighs clamped around his waist.

They came together loudly, a simultaneous cry of unbound pleasure. Lancelot sagged on her smaller frame, panting, his skin a sting of her markings. He held her in an unyielding embrace as she slept, while he inhaled the scent of their lovemaking, drifting off.

When he awoke in the morning, he reached for her, but she was gone, and for a moment he wondered if it had all been a dream. But no, he could still smell her on his pillows, the sheets, his body. Her absence left a cavernous frost in his chest, because she was not there.

He slumped back on the bad, the dry scratches on his body ignored by him. For a few hours he lay there, just staring at the empty space next to him. A gentle knock on the door sounded, and he knew it was his cousin for she did not pound on the door yelling his name. She was probably the only one he could stand to see right now. Groggily, he pulled on his breeches, then said for her to come in. His back was to her, so the first thing she saw was the long red lines down his back.

"Lottie, what happened?!" She rushed over to his side, narrowing her eyes in worry when she saw more red lines on his chest and torso, his face and neck.

"Nothing," he mumbled.

Raja smelled the scent of sex mixed with the aroma of light flowers – no whore was here. Her mind worked, coming to conclusions. Lancelot figured she would, seeing into his dark brown eyes. "Oh," she said. She sat next to him on the bed. "I take it she left you while you were sleeping?" He grunted in response. "I will send for a bath, then I'll clean your scratches so they do not get infected."

Lancelot nodded, grateful for her understanding. Fifteen minutes later a basin for bathing came in. He stripped and got in, the warm water soothing him. Raja had obviously put some sort of tonic in the water, for he could feel the revitalizing vapors of it. He washed himself thoroughly and got out, dried off, then realized that he had no clean clothes. Another soft knock on his door told him Raja was back with the salve she had promised. She opened the door just enough to put her arm through, which held a stack of folded clothes for him. Ah, and they were new clothes, fit exactly for him. A black undershirt and tunic, blue vest, black breeches. All linen, his cousin did not dabble with leather. He put on the soft pants, saying she could come in then. She had a bag of salvage paraphernalia.

"Sit," she said.

So he sat. Two people came in to remove the basin and Raja thanked them, and poked him in the ribs. "Thank you," Lancelot told them. When the door was closed, Raja took out the healing products, opened the jar and put some cream on his back. He hissed at the slight sting. After minutes of silence, he finally spoke: "I guess I finally received the brunt of her anger." He hissed again as the salve hit the scratches on his neck. She handed him the jar and told him to rub it in good for the marks on his chest.

"Anger is merely a symptom," she said. "Fear that you will hurt her again. But this time – only if she lets you."

"Damn your wisdom, woman," he muttered. "If she had just stayed with me."

Raja chuckled. "Anger of a dove should never be an overnight guest. Why do you think I sleep in the stables when Tristan and I are having a disagreement?"

Lancelot stood up to put on his shirt. "You know, that always baffled me. Should it not be you demanding he sleep in the stables?" He put on his belt and boots, he held the door open for Raja, and they began to walk down the hall.

"Oh no," - she shook her head – " it is best that he lay in our bed, in our room, without me in it. Drives the man crazy." She winked at her cousin.

--

Despite his inner warning, Lancelot found his feet heading in the direction of Sophia's quarters. She lived in a bigger domicile now. It had a sitting room, and her room in the back. She had become quite a seamstress, and many women came to her for designing dresses and other things for either their children or husbands. Sophia was now very much an independent woman, and the first time she opened her own area at the market, a throng of women had practically emptied the items she sold. And many men also purchased things for the women in their lives.

He knocked on her door, tentatively, waiting to hear the shuffling of her feet approaching. She probably knew it was him.

Inside, Sophia had been dreading his arrival. She had slept with him! And worst of all, she had enjoyed it immensely. There had been two men since Lancelot, but neither of them had made her feel anything remotely close to the ecstasy the knight in black armor had given her. Finally, after hearing another knock, and against her better judgment, she opened the door, hiding her surprise at the scratches she had inflicted on him – she had almost forgotten about those.

Lancelot simply stood there and stared at her. Gods, she was beautiful, nearly making his heart beat out of his chest. He cleared his throat, damn, she was the only woman who could turn him into a tongue-tied moron.

"Yes?" she said, as if nothing had happened between them.

He blurted, "You left."

She cocked an eyebrow, desperately trying to remain nonchalant. "I know you are probably unaccustomed to women leaving you in the night. That is likely more your role, no?" No, no, no Sophia! You're acting petty. Stop it!

Lancelot winced. "I guess I deserve that."

Her self-shame overcame her. "No, you did not. I apologize."

His eyes widened, really not expecting an apology. Maybe this was a good sign. "But...about last night..."

She shook her head, preempting him. "It was a mistake, I know. It won't happen again."

His heart was just stabbed with a thousand poisonous needles, but he steeled himself. "I didn't think it was a mistake." Mustering his courage: "I love you, and I would never regret making love to you." He pushed his way passed her, closing the door behind him.

Sophia's jaw clenched as she stared up at his beautiful face, that raw passion in his dark brown eyes.

"I said everything I could two years ago, Sophie." He used her nickname, holding her head in his hands, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs, dipping his head down, his warm breath against her lips.

Sophia pushed him away, as they were heading to what they had done last night. "You are smooth, Lancelot. Very smooth. But I still cannot...be with you without feeling disgusted with myself."

"Disgusted?"

"Yes," she said firmly. "Disgusted, weak, like I am throwing away all my self-respect if I were to get involved with you again, waiting for you to be unfaithful again."

Lancelot sighed and hung his head before looking at her again. "I know that there is nothing I can say to assure you that I would not make that same mistake. You would just have to...act as if you do trust me, until my actions prove to you that you can."

"This conversation is so pointless," she said more to herself than him.

"Goddammit!" he snapped. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you didn't feel anything!" This was a replay of two years ago, but after all this time, free of Rome, of obligations, desperation simmered inside of him. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you don't love me."

And so she looked him in the eyes, tears flooding and spilling over the brim. It was the first time he had ever seen her cry.

--

That day she had told him she loved him. Lancelot felt the oak tree moving, and he respected every one of her wishes, although only one was spoken. She did not want to sleep with him, and surprisingly, he understood that one. He was slow to caress her, waiting for just the right moment to take her hand in his when they took their walks. Not a lot of words were said between the two of them. They did not need to get to know one another again. When they had parted those long years ago, it was only their appearances that had changed, and not the love they had for one another.

So time passed, and he would often find himself lying beside her in bed during the nights, waking up next to her in the mornings. His hands did not rove when he held her, their bodies molded together were enough to send pleasure through his body. Sense he had no more fealty to Rome, Lancelot found himself going over his past, taking those roads already taken to understand how he ended up where he was now. The mistakes he had made, the battles, the blood – he found his bitterness seeping away as he accepted things as they were, and began to be grateful that he had what he did. There were a lot of things about himself he did not understand, but he had Raja, Arthur and Sophia to slap him the face when he needed insight.

His guilt for being unfaithful to Sophia riddled him, he wanted so much to make this go of things just right. He did not flirt with other women, and he only went to the tavern for breakfast, or at night, when Sophia would join him. Lancelot had no eyes for another, and he did not want to give Sophia any cause to doubt him. His brothers were taking women. Bors and Vanora finally got married, Dagonet was married. Gawain and Galahad were on the verge of settling themselves down. So it was nice that he found his niche with Sophia, although, he was often ribbed by others that he could never be with just one woman, look at what happened last time! Even the wenches thought he would come around eventually. Such talk irritated him, made him second guess himself.

--

Sophia kissed Lancelot lightly on the cheek before heading off for an appointment she had with one of her patrons. He sat around the table in the tavern, eating his breakfast with the men, while kids mingled around them. With few Roman soldiers in the fort nowadays, it was quieter.

A serving lady came and refilled their cups, looking at Lancelot suggestively but only got a desultory nod of gratitude in return. The woman rolled her eyes and sighed, and said to another female passing by: "He'll crack soon enough." It was said loud enough for the table to hear.

Galahad sniggered, and Lancelot shot him a dirty look. His ire brewed as the younger knight whispered something in Meredith's – his female – ear, causing her to place wide eyes on him. She turned her head away, as if she had been caught looking at something private. Tristan noticed the exchange and stood up.

"Patrol," he said to Lancelot, not waiting for a reply.

The curly haired knight downed the rest of his beverage and followed the scout, feeling grateful at Tristan's interference. The inspection of the grounds was uneventful, as things had been calm for some time around the area. The two men headed back leisurely, Lancelot thinking about the talk of his love-life, the talk of people that said things as if he knew him. Lancelot kept passing sidelong glances at the man next to him, wondering about the relationship he had with Raja. How the hell had they managed all these long years? Fifteen long years.

"What are you looking at?" Tristan said in his usual calm manner.

Lancelot was about to speak, to ask something. Was he about to ask Tristan for advice?

Tristan turned his head ever so slightly at him, his eyebrow cocked. Raja had spoken to him about the incessant chatter of the women around the fort. His Raja always seemed to know what was bothering her cousin and others. The scout had even taken some pity on the man. And he could tell – with wry amusement – that Lancelot wanted his opinion on something. "Ignore them."

Lancelot looked at Tristan curiously. "Who?"

"Them."

A long moment went by until he realized that Tristan had known what was bothering him and decided to take it upon himself to answer his unasked question. Who the hell else could he rant to? He would ask his cousin, but it was a man's perspective he needed. And he felt that Arthur had not been married to Guinevere long enough to provide an adequate point of view. And Bors? Nope.

"Have you never been attracted to another woman?" Lancelot blurted. He could swear that he had never seen Tristan so much as pay another woman the slightest bit of attention, not counting the year he and Raja had been estranged.

Tristan narrowed his eyes at him. Lancelot was not exactly one for heart to heart chats, especially with him. And no one asked about the relationship he had with Raja. It was not a casual thing to be so whimsically talked about. And for Lancelot to ask such a question was bold.

"No," he said after what seemed like an eternity.

Then why was he? What had caused him to stray, Lancelot thought. Was his love for Sophia any weaker than Tristan's love for Raja? "Why?" Might as well get it out now, throw his dignity at Tristan's mercy.

"Because I don't need anyone else." Tristan spoke firmly, without the slightest bit of doubt.

"I didn't either," Lancelot said.

Tristan lifted one shoulder lazily. "You erred. Don't do it again. Simple."

Tristan's candor hit Lancelot like an anvil. Maybe it was that simple. Just don't do it. It wasn't as if he had been under some sort of spell two years ago. He thought about Tristan saying _need_ and not _want_. And what made someone need another person so much that if they were dead and gone so might the person be who was left behind. At what point, Lancelot wondered, did Tristan realize that he needed Raja. _When did Raja become a vital role in my life?_ And why did it always take a tragedy to make you forget the whys and wherefores? Why does it take a tragedy for the indisputable truth to settle itself in?

--

A few weeks after that conversation with Tristan, Lancelot found himself with the rest of the men on the most important search and rescue mission of his life. Raja had been at a village when Saxons had come and pillaged. Odin and Horus had returned to the fort without her, the white feathered creature holding the white strands of Raja's hair in his beak. Lancelot had stood there in the courtyard as Vanora told them the news the day they arrived back from a patrol. It was the same village they had passed through on their way home, the village that held no survivors.

His entire body was heavy as he went to the first person he could think of. Sophia answered the door and took him in her arms, for she knew of Raja's disappearance. He told her that he was going to go with Tristan in the morning to find her. That night as they lay in bed together, Lancelot reached for her, body trembling, and Sophia responded. Their love making was urgent, passionate, as if they were clawing through the surface of one another.

Sophia accompanied him to the courtyard where the rest of the men's women stood. Before he mounted his horse, she kissed him, and her warm breath sounded in his ear: "I love you, Lancelot. And I'll be here when you get back."

Sophia did not know that those were the exact words Raja had spoken to Tristan so many times.

--

It took over a week for them to recover Raja from her hell. All that time she had been with Saxons and then left for dead. Seeing her like that, Lancelot insides were ripped apart, though probably nothing compared to the torture Tristan was feeling for his other half. If Raja's voice was not so dry, Lancelot knew he would have heard her scream her demons senseless. And when Galahad had mused if she would die or not, Lancelot could have slit his throat then and there for even suggesting it. He, the cynic, the fatalist, the first to say leave whoever behind – the man who once told Guinevere that he would have left she and the boy behind if he had been in charge. But they were not his cousin, and he would have gone to hell and back to save her.

Lancelot heard Arthur's footsteps approach him as he kneeled by a creek, splashing cold water on his face. Arthur, the optimist. Wryly he wondered if his closest friend had come to spout religious nonsense. No doubt he was praying to his God to save Raja. But despite the disparity of their beliefs, he could not imagine his life without Arthur either.

"Tristan said he is leaving now to get her back," Arthur informed him. "Her fever has risen."

Lancelot shut his eyes tightly for a moment before standing. Arthur's eyes mirrored his, dread, despair, a flicker of hope. "Raja will live," he told him, as if he knew the future.

A puff of air left Lancelot's mouth, and without rancor he said, "Did your God tell you that?"

He shook his head. "No. I am telling myself that."

"I don't know what I'd do without her Arthur," Lancelot confessed. And in a rare show of open affection, they embraced strongly. When they parted, he said: "Do me a favor."

"Anything."

"If you believe your praying works, then pray enough for the both of us."

Those were words Arthur would never have imagined his best friend to speak. "I will."

They rode hard and fast as they dared. Stopping just briefly for the horses had to rest if they were going to be able to carry them the rest of the way. And like a glorious reprieve, they arrived in the courtyards of the fortress early in the morning. Bors woke Vanora, and she went to assist, getting up from her slumber, all sleep instantly gone. Lancelot went with Dagonet, Vanora, and Tristan to Raja's room, even though there was little he could do to help. He helped carry in the wash basin, helped to keep Raja calm when she struggled.

Eventually when she was cleaned and wrapped in fresh bandages, Vanora suggested that he go and rest as well. It took some prodding, but she also told Tristan that he should clean himself up, and she would watch over Raja while he did that. If he were going to take care of her, he had to take care of himself, too.

Lancelot did not want to leave her either. His nerves were shot, his body hardly felt the weight of his frosty armor or the filth on his body. But he left Tristan alone with Raja and damned near ran to Sophia's room. When she opened the door her grogginess melted away, and the only words he spoke, cracked and strained: "We found her." And he fell into her arms, sobbing like a child. Raspy and strong, chest heaving he cried in her arms for how long he did not know. She coaxed him onto a chair and began to strip him of his boots, armor, and clothes. She washed him down in warm water, brought him clean clothes and settled him in her bed.

He was so distraught that he said he could not eat. "Let me hold you, Sophia," he said. Really, they ended up holding each other, and his tears ran again until he finally fell into a dead sleep.

Sophia stroked his face and the nape of his neck lovingly and gently. She watched him sleep, her heart aching for his pain, and she felt sadness as well, for him and for Raja. For Tristan. Thinking, how much more agony would Tristan and Raja have to suffer in their lives together? She could think of no other couple who had endured so much and come out of it alive, or better for it, the connection stronger than a chain of enforced iron. A tear of her own slid down her cheek.

--

In the days and weeks that followed, Raja's family came and went to inquire about her mend, but nothing changed. When Lancelot was not with Sophia, he was in the antechamber of Tristan's and Raja's room, sitting by the fire, waiting for a change. He would peek in her room from time to time to see Tristan sitting by her bed, his eyes constantly on hers. One day, Tristan turned to Lancelot slowly when he had looked in: "Did you want to sit with her?"

Lancelot was surprised, but yes, he did want to sit with her.

"She is awake, but come get me immediately if she calls out," he told him. Lancelot nodded and did not take Tristan's vacant seat until he heard the door close.

Looking at her now, a large lump developed in his throat. Slowly, he sat, and took Raja's skeletal hand in his own. He felt like he was sixteen again when Raja had first come to the fort with her Uncle Ardeth. He had felt waves of fear for the first time in years when his cousin went catatonic for the first time. One time, Dagonet said reverently that she had ocean eyes. Lancelot had looked at him as he walked away, bewildered by his comment – Raja did not have blue eyes. It was not until later that he understood. It had nothing to do with the color of her irises, but the fathomless depths of emptiness that gazed out into nothing when she was locked into her own world. She was there, but not _there_. Drowning deep into an abyss that became darker the further she submerged. Lancelot could remember swimming in a vast lake back in Sarmatia. He would swim deep into the water on his back, seeing the sun shining through the water, but with the increased depth of his submergence, the light faded, unable to break through the water.

It had been so long since she had sunk so deep. But with the recent rapes during her capture, he knew that there were more ghosts to pull her down. And when she would open her eyes – for she would open her eyes – he would see the ocean again. When she was a little girl, as they had grown closer, he wanted to dive into those waters and pull her out. But Tristan and Ardeth had always been there first. He envied Tristan that in the early days, but as time went on he figured that it did not matter who was there, just as long as someone was.

Lancelot ran one finger over the back of Raja's hand. He remembered the first time she had truly hovered near death. Woads had attacked the fortress, she had been in the stables, and in her steadfast love for animals, she had gotten in the way of a Woad, and an arrow pierced her chest. So small was she that the arrow broke through her body. It was he who found her in a stack of hay. He hated the damned Woads even more then, nearly killing the little girl he had come to love as his own sister.

He had been sitting with Raja longer than he thought for Tristan came back, bathed and in clean clothes. But unshaved, his beard a gnarly mass, as was his hair.

"She did not move," Lancelot said to him, getting up from the chair.

Tristan nodded. Lancelot passed him on the way out the door, but paused. They both felt the pull, and quickly, they embraced each other, both feeling the other's pain. The hug was like a vise of arms, a vocation of solidarity, and they parted with no discomfort or embarrassment.

Near a month later, Raja fully awoke. Something had happened between Tristan and she one early morning, and after that, Lancelot knew for sure that she would get through. He spent his mornings cuddling and making love with Sophia. He liked to nuzzle the nape of her neck and run his hands down the smooth expanse of her torso. That was what he woke up to the in the mornings, and that was what he wanted to wake up to every morning.

"Sophia," he said. Though it was late February, snowflakes were fluttering down from the sky.

"Hmm?" She looked up at him, his dark brown eyes melting in hers. The covers were strewn around them, the fire crackled in the morn. She stroked his cheeks, the coarse little hairs on his face. His shaggy mop of bed haired curls.

Lancelot kissed her. "Marry me, Sophie."

Her eyes opened wide, startled at his words. But yet, a warmth flooded her, and butterflies flittered in her tummy.

"Sophie?" he breathed, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

As he waited for her answer, his life swirled in his mind. Insofar, all events had led to this moment: asking the woman he needed in his life to marry him. Raja had been the one he told, and she cried for him, happily. No words from her, of course, no congratulations, just pure joy in her heart for him that shined through her silver eyes. If she had never come to Britain, would he still be in bed with Sophia, this day, asking her to marry him? Would he even have had the courage? But he thanked the gods that the little Egyptian girl had come into his life. Her tiny hand had taken his, her other hand filled with seeds. She had put them into the best soil she could find, and said to him that these seeds are my belief, faith, hope, trust and love for you. And one day, Lottie, someone, somewhere will find these seeds, and believe in their potential as much as I do. And when that person comes along, the two of you shall spring eternal.

"Yes," Sophia whispered. She felt a tear on her face, but realized that it was not her own, it was Lancelot's.

And through his tears, the biggest, most genuine smile spread on his face. He cursed himself for being such a sap, but this was a once in a lifetime moment, so he said the hell with it and let his tears run as he kissed Sophia urgently, joyfully.

--

Raja was well enough to dance with Lancelot on his wedding day. She and Tristan were the only ones not to ribald him on his defection to matrimony. And as he danced with Sophia, his eyes caught Tristan and Raja with their foreheads touching, Tristan's arm around her shoulders. He lightly kissed her on the head, then the lips, and she smiled at him with her ocean eyes, only now they were filled with fathomless depths of love. Lancelot never truly understood Tristan until that very moment. How a man as savage, brutal, stoic as he could be so unabashedly tender when he held the woman he loved. Long ago, he might have thought the brutality Tristan gave off was an act then. But no, the blood was a part of him, he still relished the kill, but when he went home to Raja, she saw past that, and into the warrior's heart – the man's heart.

And so there were no pretenses with Lancelot when he was with Sophia. He could be the cynical realist, but when he would lurk too deep in those places, she would be there to pull out the hope and love that his cousin had long ago planted for him. It was what kept him human, what made him feel. And it was all so simple then, like a click. He looked at his cousin and Tristan one more time, and he knew for certain why Tristan had said he needed Raja. He needed her because he loved her, she sustained him, saw the beauty in him. Just as his Sophia did with him. And that was all he needed – her love.

_Don't tear me down for all I need_

_Make my heart a better place_

_Give me something I can believe_

_Don't tear it down, what's left of me_

_Make my heart a better place..._

5/7/07


End file.
